Unspoken
by Lisa87
Summary: Extended scenes from the end of episode 3x10 "The Devil's Share" from Shaw's perspective.


**A/N:** I've loved this show since it first aired, but this is my first venture into the POI fanfiction world. Why? - The. Last. Two. Episodes. Need I say more?

To be honest, I don't like Shaw. I've hated her from the start. I feel her character detracts from the Finch/Reese dynamic. So why did I write this? Not sure really. There was just something intriguing about writing such angst filled scenes from the viewpoint of a character so emotionally detached from it all. She's heavily involved in the plot yet acts more like a casual observer when it comes to the psychological aspects. I've never come across anything like that before. It was like writing angst without the angst, if that makes any sense at all. Probably only in my mind. Ah, well. Maybe Shaw's character is just growing on me. Who knows.

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended._

~O~

Shaw once again attempted to adjust the damn near crushing weight across her shoulders as it collapsed even further on top of her.

"Think you could help us out here a little, John? You're not exactly Mr. Tall, Dark and Skinny, you know."

Grumbling to herself at his lack of response, she decided that her ineffectiveness to complete her current task in a timely manner could hardly be attributed to shortcomings on her part. After all, while she may have easily taken out more than her fair share of grown men in her lifetime, there'd never been cause to cart them around. Not that her comrade's present condition was her doing.

Being a successful med school graduate and former US army intelligence operative, Shaw could master pretty much anything that happened to be thrown her way. Unfortunately for her, however, this did not seem to include lugging around two hundred pounds of male specimen with only a limping, bespectacled man for aid. Mind you, Shaw would have to hand it to Finch; he was doing a darn good job of his part, all things considered. In fact, watching him stagger onward with the opposite arm of their charge slung about his shoulder, it appeared that he was actually having an easier job of it than she was; Shaw had never seen him look quite so determined.

He cut her a glance now, disapproval for her quipped remark plain on his sweat-shined face. "I don't think he is able to, Ms. Shaw."

"You sure about that?" she challenged, blatantly ignoring the fact that the trace of bitterness in the normally mild-mannered older man's tone suggested that their current situation called for the more compassionate side of human nature.

Finch didn't deign to answer, and Shaw decided to refrain from pointing out that while Reese was indeed in a bad way he had also single-handedly taken down a building swarming with Feds not less than ten minutes prior. Admittedly, his condition was declining rapidly, but knowing his background and having the same military training he did, Shaw knew that such training dictated a certain automatic, resilient-driven need to keep plowing forward as long as one was still conscious and breathing. It seemed to her that Reese should at the very least be _attempting_ to hold himself upright. The fact that he was making no such attempt was what worried her.

Wait a minute. Worried? Why should that worry her? If John no longer had any desire to live it was no skin off her nose. Why were they wasting time dragging him off for medical attention when their time would be better spent going after Simmons? There was no reason for them to exert themselves for a man who didn't want to be saved.

Why, then, didn't she say as much to Finch? Why then had her seemingly callous remark actually stemmed from her irritation at their snail-like pace?

Well. She supposed she liked being a part of the computer genius's incongruous team enough to do as bid in this instance. She may not care too much either way if John lived or died but such was not the case for Finch. He would no doubt accept nothing less than a full-fledged attempt to save John's life, whether or not logic sided with their efforts.

Satisfied with this explanation for the time being, Shaw hauled the ever-increasing weight of John Reese higher up on her shoulder and continued to half lift, half drag him out of the building, wishes of the man himself be damned.

o~O~o

Had she said two hundred pounds? Two hundred, her ass! Three was sounding a lot more plausible. Shaw knew the man was tall, but, _shit_, he was heavy.

It didn't help her ego any that Finch still didn't look any worse for wear than she did. At least not physically anyway.

One more final haul upward and they had the now unconscious John Reese in the back seat of the car. _Finally_.

Shaw climbed in after him, kneading her aching shoulder as she did so.

"Hurry, Ms. Groves. I fear time is of essence." Finch was already in the passenger seat, watching as their apparent designated driver climbed into the driver's seat. Why on earth he hadn't taken the controls himself, Shaw had no idea. But then, she supposed Root was in a much better state than Finch at the moment, the latter of who was currently staring straight ahead, his body tense as a bowstring.

Shaw shook her head in admonishment. Despite what her residency mentor had said to her years ago, she would never understand why anyone would rather put their life in the hands of an emotionally driven human being instead of one with a level head. Not that Root could be said to be level-headed by any kind of loose definition—God, only knew what went on in that woman's head—but at least she wasn't emotionally attached to the situation.

Focusing on her task at hand, Shaw proceeded to peel back Reese's suit jacket and take measure of his injuries. She swore under her breath. Finch was right about one thing—time was definitely of the essence if Reese was to survive. It did not look good. Not good at all. The amount of blood loss was staggering, not only from his abdominal bullet wound but the shoulder one as well.

Surprised by her sudden bout of determination, Shaw tugged the suit jacket the rest of the way off his shoulders and snatched up the first aid kit she'd thought to bring along. Grabbing the roll of gauze from the kit, she made quick work of unbuttoning his shirt, opting to work on the abdominal wound first since it was considerably worse off, the previously applied stitches completely torn apart. _Idiot_, she thought to her unconscious patient. _You idiot_. Finch's hired doctor had removed the bullets and stitched up the wounds not twenty-four hours prior, but Reese had obviously succeeded in undoing all of the doctor's efforts not long after they'd been administered. And the most unfortunate part of it all was that Reese had not even succeeded in his personal vendetta mission. All of his efforts had been in vain. Patrick Simmons was still very much alive.

_Simmons._ How could she have forgotten?

Her head snapped up. "We should be going after Simmons," she said astutely, shaking her head slightly at their foolishness. "Reese got his location."

This was the reasonable course of action, of course it was. On the one hand, Reese's chances of survival were slim. On the other, however, if they took chase to Simmons now, chances were good they'd at least be able to finish what Reese had started. Logic was clearly pointing at the most viable option. So why then was she feeling a pull in the opposite direction? Why did the fact that Reese's chances weren't looking good only strengthen her resolve to keep him alive? Why were her spoken words to Finch more of an attempt to convince herself she hadn't lost her mind than they were to sway him?

"Sometimes you have to make choices, Ms. Shaw. We've already lost a friend. I don't intend to lose another. Not tonight." His voice was steady, vacant, but definite. There was nothing that would change his mind.

Funny thing was, Shaw no longer wished to.

"I can't believe we're going to let him get away," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Working diligently to staunch the bleeding—the words _fix_ and _heal_ tossing about in her head—Shaw decided that she'd definitely lost her mind.

o~O~o

The faint beep of the monitor was the only sound that could be heard. That, coupled with the near palpable air of doom and gloom her silent companion was radiating into the room, was slowly driving her insane. Contrary to their good news, Finch was still wearing the same tortured expression.

"He's going to live, Harold," she said when she could take it no longer. "So you can stop with the crippled puppy look, okay?"

He inclined his head in her direction but didn't respond.

All right, so it hadn't been the best attempt at offering consolation, but, hey, at least she was trying.

"Thank you, Ms. Shaw," he said finally, turning to look at her fully. "I'm grateful for your efforts these past two days. I've no doubt Mr. Reese would not be alive today without your assistance. "

Shaw knew his gratitude was sincere, but she also knew a dismissal when she heard one.

Well. She could do with a hot shower and a good night sleep anyhow. Rising from John's bedside, she said as much to Finch and headed for the door. But something stopped her halfway. She turned back.

"It's not your fault, Harold," she said abruptly.

He looked up, startled—no doubt that someone who cared not if a person lived or died could correctly interpret such a deeply buried human emotion. Then, after a moment's contemplation, he gave a brief nod.

Shaw almost turned back for a second time. Almost told him that he was wrong about her. That she'd finally realized why her logic had been misplaced these past twenty-four hours, why she'd been so adamant to find Simmons herself in the first place, why her desire to find Simmons had later so easily been displaced by the need to keep Reese alive.

Because she _did_ care.

She cared if John lived or died.

Not in the same painfully deep way another might, but, still, she cared. She cared enough.

Enough that she'd finally been able to distinguish between fixing and healing.

A distinction that had saved John Reese's life.

Shaw continued on her way out the door. Some things were best left unspoken.

**Author's Note:**

Thoughts? I actually have another POI story that I will be posting soon (the last episode really fired up my mojo!). It's already written. A post 3x10 fic. Hope to see you there.


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